I'll be Home for Christmas
by Black Rose25
Summary: xXChapter 2 Up!Xx Silghtly AU BST fic. Holmes is invited home to Oakenstaff for Christmas; What mysterys will unfold?
1. Default Chapter

Hey, everyone! I was going to post this Christmas Eve, I really truly was, but my sister got to the computer first... Gr. No time at all to type. So, now I'm up at, like, five in the morning, waiting for SH22 to be on, as I just recently found out that it was, and lo and behold! I have time to type! So, here I am... Just, everyone, thank March Hare; I had kinda laid this by the wayside, and was planning on posting it for a Christmas-in-July kinda thing, but she gave me a good kick in the pants to get moving. So, I'm posting this for the anniversary of the first publication of BST! Yay for us! Exactly one year *and a day* ago, the first chapter of BST appeared on the Holmes board! It's a great holiday, so the schools have been giving us the entire week off. I bet you were wondering what the extra week after Christmas was for! Now you know. I'm probably boring you all to death, so here we go again!  
  
*Nona*  
  
The sound of a good-hearted Christmas carol from the kitchen brought me out of a sound slumber. Groaning, I prepared to roll over in to the warmer side of the bed, but stopped when I remembered what day it was: Christmas Eve. I suddenly felt even more reluctant than before to get out of bed. It was Christmas, and I didn't have one party to go to, one place to be. A knock on my door brought me to the here-and-now as Mrs. Hudson brogued through the oak.  
  
"Nona, birdie, it's time to get up! Breakfast won't make itself, I'm afraid." Steeling myself to the outside, and lonely, world, I resolved that even if I wasn't going to a party, the least I could do was make the house ready for the season. Doubtless there would be enough cheery meals at home to reap the benefit from a clean house. Small though that task may seem, it was in reality a substantial obstacle. Victorian cleaning supplies were not what one would call "First Class." Feeling better with my new resolution, I climbed out of bed, determined that even if today was going to be a miserable day, the least I could do was be cheery about it.  
  
Getting ready to be seen by human eyes in record time, I bounded out the door without looking where I was going. I must remember to do that more often. I was sent sprawling to the floor into a tangle of skirt, legs, and arms, as well as-- Oh, Dear! A pair masculine hands on my... How did that happen? To top it all off, I found myself looking in to a pair of startled gray eyes barely an inch from mine. Still in shock, *Or so I claimed when the subject came up over a few drinks later that year* I laid there for what seemed like a nanosecond, though in reality it must have been several times that, when I heard the voice of another shocked individual behind Holmes and I sprawled on the floor, for indeed Holmes it was. This one, however, had a rather cultured London accent, one that was intensified by surprise.  
  
"Oh, dear me!" said Watson from the stairs. "What in heaven's name is going on here?!" The spell was broken, but the damage was still done. Coming back to his senses, Holmes fairly leaped to his feet, leaving me conspicuously on the ground. I think that I have never seen his ears turn quite that shade of red: he made the garland of holly berries behind him seem to fade.  
  
"Dreadfully sorry, Nona... You should watch... Why were you...? Here, let me help you up!" Extending his hand downward, Holmes caught mine in his and heaved me to my feet. I made a show of brushing little composed me off, but truth be told I must have been of the same shade as Holmes. Watson's voice rang out from the landing, sounding too highly amused for me to be comfortable.  
  
"Good lord, Holmes, however did that come about?"  
  
"It was entirely my fault, Watson," I said, stepping in to the rescue. "I just didn't watch where I was going when I came out of my room, and I'm afraid I was going kinda fast. But, no harm done!" I said in what I hoped was an airy tone. Fortunately, Mrs. Hudson's calling from the kitchen rescued me from the conclusion of easily one of the most embarrassing moments in my short life.  
  
"Nona, are you up yet?" I would have to remember to thank her later.  
  
"If you would be so kind as to excuse me, gentlemen." I turned on my heel and walked through the swinging door to the kitchen. Once inside, I burst out laughing. Maybe today wouldn't be so miserable after all...  
  
/*\ \*/  
  
"I'm Home!" I proclaimed opon opening the door to 221, b later that day, even though I knew full well that there would be nobody there to hear it. Holmes and Watson had planned to go to a concert before lunch, and Mrs. Hudson said something about visiting some obscure relative; anyhow, I was back from my Christmas shopping, and felt inclined to announce my presence to the dust bunnies. Whistling "Carol of the Bells," I went to my room to stash the presents under the loose floorboard to be boxed later. Laying out my purchases on the bed, my spirits suddenly sank as I reviewed the results of my day's work:  
  
For Mrs. Hudson, I had a new thimble. She had been teaching me how to hem, and her old one had dissapered in to the Land of Oz while it was... *Ahem* On loan. Watson had been a little harder to shop for, as men always are. I finally settled on a Medical Journal that I had seen him eyeing before. Then came Holmes. That was the most difficult of all. I had finally sensed the perfect present walking home today in desperation. Sitting in the window of a shop was a small, high-power magnification glass. I know that his larger one had been giving him trouble of all sorts: The handle fell off, the glass fell out, it was too large to carry conveniently in one's pocket... The smaller one was just the thing. However, this last purchase had drained my already meager fund.  
  
But, it was not the fault of my purse that my spirit's had been uninflated. It was the number of the gifts. Christmas had always been my favorite time of year before I timehopped. Carols, presents, yes, but most of all my favorite part was getting together with my family. My cousins from around the world would fly out every year for the season, and in most cases, it was the only time I saw them the entire year. The thing I remember most was the shopping. Trish and I, with several other friends, would go mall hopping for weeks straight, trying to find the perfect present for everyone. Some nights we would struggle home laden with bags and boxes only to collapse on the couch and watch "It's a Wonderful Life" with candy canes and hot chocolate aplenty while we wrapped them. It was true, what they say, at least in my case. It really IS better to give than to receive. So, here I was now, looking at my presents. My three presents. One... Two... Three. One for every person I knew. I was homesick. I wanted to go to the Christmas Eve party, to wake up in the morning to discover what "Santa Clause" had left us this year, to be there when my mom desperately tried to unload all the left over food on unsuspecting visitors--  
  
There was a ring at the door. Knowing full well that I was the only one home, I was forced to leave my sad vigil over the presents and see who knocking. Thundering down the hall with a downhearted scowl, I was assailed by a most unsuspected sight opon opening the door: Mycroft!  
  
The butterball, not even waiting to be invited, stepped in to the hall the instant I opened the door, oblivious to my mute protests.  
  
"Mycroft!... I... Is something..." Holding up his hand to silence my inquires, he cocked a quizzical eye at me.  
  
"Peace, woman! It's Christmas Eve; I simply wanted to wish my brother the Best of the Season, and deliver some news from North Riding. Assuming from the fact that he is not downstairs already, I deduce that he is out. Would you happen to know where he is?" Woman? Who did he think he was? Oh, right... Holmes' brother...  
  
"Nope, sorry, but I don't have a clue where Holmes is."  
  
"Well," He responded, eyeing me askance, "That's a first." I could have killed that man right where he stood. He may be smarter than Sherlock, but that is certainly no excuse to be ruder by as many fold!  
  
"You said that there was news from Oakenstaff?" I held my hand out expectantly with a curt attitude. With an uneasy look, he dug in to his jacket breast pocket and revealed a letter. He handed it to me, and I made to shut the door; Mycroft, however, stuck his pudgy foot, door-to-door salesman style in between the door and the wall.  
  
"Nona, would it be too much trouble to see that he gets that letter before half past noon? It's a matter of some importance." Well, at least he called me by my name. The least I could do was to be civil.  
  
"I'll try. He will get it the instant that he gets home, and no later." Heaving a sigh of gratitude, Mycroft removed his foot from the path of the door.  
  
"Thank you." He said, and walked off. After shutting the door behind him, I examined the envelope further. The paper it was made of was of good quality, though still far from the best. There was a "To" Address, 221, b Baker Street, but no return address. Glancing at the corner, I saw that there were no postage stamps... Odd. It somehow seemed harder to feel more forlorn over my small collection of presents in my room now that my mind was occupied with the reason and/or cause of Mycroft's earlier appearance. Carrying my things up to the sitting room where there was more room to box and wrap, I cast the letter down opon the settee and gave it nary a second thought. Yeah, right. The thing puzzled me to no end: what was it; why Mycroft delivered it by hand, rather than posting it; and not the least why it was to be given to Holmes before 12:30.  
  
After wrapping my things and placing them in their hiding place with Bernie, I returned to the sitting room and puzzled over the origins of this mysterious letter, glancing nervously at the clock on the mantle every three minutes. The sooner that Holmes and Watson returned, the sooner I would find out what was in it. Or, at least, that was the reason to begin with. As soon as the clock struck noon, I began to worry that the pair would not get here in time to open the letter by the appointed time. Around 12:40, I despaired that they would ever get home, and went downstairs to seek my neglected lunch, only to have the pair open the door the instant my foot touched the top step. Ascending from my perch with what I hoped was a non-chalant attitude, I said lightly to Holmes:  
  
"You got a letter while you were out." He paused in the act of putting his coat away and looked at me confused.  
  
"A letter? But the postman's already been."  
  
"Yes, I know. Mycroft delivered it himself." That got him moving. So rare was it that Mycroft would venture beyond the eccentric boundaries of his club that when he did, it was sure to cause a stir of one kind or another.  
  
"Well, where did you put it?" He asked as if I would have tossed it out with the garbage.  
  
"Upstairs in the sitting room." I gestured towards the door. Moving in a leap, he bounded past me and up the stairs. I was about to comment on this, but remembering the sort of news that Mycroft had brought last time he showed at Baker Street, I swallowed my tongue and went in to the kitchen for an apple. I am afraid to say that we had both somewhat neglected Watson, and he was left standing in the hall with Holmes' jacket thrown across his arm in a quite confused state.  
  
After retrieving my lunch, I went up to the sitting room, bursting inside to know what was in that letter. However, opon arriving there, I found Holmes casually sitting in his chair reading the Times for the day. The letter, I noticed, was cast aside on the mantle. Sitting down on the sofa, and quite confused about his attitude, I pondered his actions. Was there not something of the utmost importance in that correspondence? Why should it have been delivered by half past, when already it was 12:45?  
  
"Well, Holmes?" I inquired. He glanced up at me expectantly, as if he had no idea what I was asking about. "What was in the letter?"  
  
"Oh, that." He responded. He tossed the opened envelope over to me. "See for yourself." I glanced inside, only to be caught unprepared for the contents: Train Tickets! Three of them! For... North Riding! Accompanying them was a letter from Sherrinford, requesting that we join them for Christmastide. So this was what was of so much importance! But why was it to be delivered by 12:30? Pursuing the tickets further, I found out: They were for a 1:20 train! That only gave us... I counted on my fingers, to the apparent amusement of Holmes in his chair... Half an hour to get to the station. Leaping out of my chair, I said to Holmes:  
  
"Well, come on, let's get packing!" Again acting oblivious, he looked up at me with the picture of innocence plastered on his face.  
  
"Packing? Whatever for?" Whatever for? He honestly didn't expect us not to go!  
  
"For the train! We've got just enough time to pack before we leave, and if we waste any, we'll be late and miss the train!" Folding up his paper and standing up, he casually stretched his arms behind his back, only serving further to agitate me.  
  
"Well... I hadn't intended on going, but if you *want* to..." That jerk! He knew perfectly well that I wanted to go! A big Christmas Eve at Oakenstaff... This is just what I had been wishing for!  
  
"You dolt, of *course* I want to go! Now let's get packing!" Moving as slowly as he could he walked over to the door and held it for me. "Well, then, I sudgest you get packing! And inform Watson. I shall be along momentarily." Without waiting for another word to be said, I rushed downstairs, skipping the last three in a way that Mrs. Hudson would have disapproved of. And so, in less than half an hour, the three of us were speeding down the tracks on our way to North Riding.  
  
AN: *Sigh* Well, there it is! My mom's been bugging me to get off the computer and walk the dogs for the past half hour, and says that if I'm not off in five minutes, she'll pull the plug, so I'll make this fast. I've been working on a web cite for BST! It's got a guest book, and a chat room and all sorts of other cool stuff, plus these neat graphics that took forever to behave themselves. You all should check it out! It's my homepage. And, I've made a Yahoo! Group for we the brownies! It's called bstfans; just go to the Yahoo! Homepage and search for it, and click on the first link. It rox too. Ok, just check it out and happy Brownie Anniversary, everyone!! Ciao! *Oh, and review. Pwease??* 


	2. Take me home, Country Road

Hey, everyone! Yeah, I updated this one fast, but don't get used to it. *Kidding* Most of you seemed concerned that last chapter 1 was all I was going to post! *Looks pointedly at Hare* I wouldn't do that to you! However, I am disappointed at the number of reviews... Four? ;( But, what am I going to do? I would also like to thank hanschristian84 and nastia_nik for joining the Yahoo! Group for Brownies! Yet more hugs for you! Now... *Looks accusingly at all those reading this excepting the two above- mentioned members* Why haven't YOU joined yet? *Kidding again* Ok, now, responses to those four reviews:  
  
coolpuella: Yeah, it's on here at 7 too, but there's a channel on my dish that shows it at 5:30... It's like 1284. My mom's nice, but she is firmly convinced that this latest in my line of obsessions is unhealthy, and that I have no social life. I've got a social life, it's just all over the Holmes board!  
  
March Hare: NO, that's not it. Am I spared from the wrath of a ravenous bunny? Yeah, you'll see, Mycroft gets it in this chapter. Virgil and Sherrinford and Theresa... Hey! Don't forget Holly!  
  
Danric-Lover: Yeah, yeah, I know I'm the best. *Blushes uncontrollably* I loved your entry, and I'll have to give Fel an extra big cookie, after I get all that dough out of the nooks and crannies in my oven... I'm still trying to clean the macadamia nuts out of the range top; I tried to see if I could fry up a batch of white choco/macadamia when the oven was going too slowly. I'll never hear the end of that one... =)  
  
Lady Arianna: The greatest compliment I could receive was to tell me that Nona was in character: That's every Brownie's dream. Plus, I never thought that anyone would accuse me of actually thinking something out! Quite the novel experience.  
  
Anyway, 'nuff said. I should get on with this; the Ball at Times Square drops in exactly 1 hour 10 minutes. I wanna be done with this to have my yearly champagne. Oh, and I honestly had no idea that the last chap was so short. I'll try and make this one longer, I promise! *Devil horns pop in to existence above head* Whoops! How did *those* get there? Anyway, Happy Brownie-versary!  
  
Nona:  
  
"Nona... Nona... NON--" *THUMP*  
  
Regaining consciousness in a most untoward way, I opened my eyes to see a pair of concerned gray eyes inches from my face for the second time that day. Rubbing my head where it had hit the floor of the train compartment, I sat up and scanned the countryside out the window: North Riding it was. Grumbling minimally, I sat up and glanced at Sherlock standing above me.  
  
"Ya know, Sherlock," I said, "there *are* other ways to wake a woman aside from prodding her off the bench she is lying on." Heaving myself to my feet via the *painfully badly padded* trainbench, and pointedly ignoring the hand that Holmes had extended downward for that purpose, I brushed myself off and scanned the small compartment for my bags.  
  
"Well, what did you expect?" Came the acerbic voice of my companion from behind me. "I'm not about to carry you all the way to Oakstaff!" Blushing from the memory of what had happened the last time I fell asleep on the way somewhere, I sent him a withering glare and stalked down the artificially illuminated hallway and out the door. No need to keep the other passengers waiting.  
  
The instant I stepped from the train, I was assailed by the smell and feel of fresh country air. I can assure you that it was a relief after the months in the Great Cesspool know as London. Seeing Watson standing by our bags a short way down the platform, I did a 180 and looked for the smiling, waving, white haired escort that had been sent to greet us last time we visited. Oddly, the Holmes family Accountant nee driver Trevor St. Clair was nowhere to be seen. Circling several times on the spot in a manner that I'm sure would have amused passerby's to no end, had there been any at that time of day, or should I say night. The sun had set while I was comatose, and the Milky Way was shining bright in the night sky. From my internal clock, I judged it to be no later than 5:30. Winter tended to bring longer and sooner nights, though.  
  
I involuntarily shuddered as a gust of wind blew my unbuttoned coat open. It was Christmas Eve after all. It was bound to be cold. I had opted for the traditional skirt as opposed to a prototype for this visit, wanting to appear as friendly and... well, *normal* as I could, considering the fact that this was Christmas Eve. The Holmes' were likely to have many other guests at the Manor besides us, and that was the last place that I wanted to cause social outrage.  
  
I shuddered again from the biting cold, though this time, I was surprised by a man's greatcoat being draped around my shoulders. Wondering at how such a thing could have magically appeared on my person, I turned around for the umpteenth time to find Holmes walking towards Watson with a concerned look on his face. Followed him, and made to remove the coat and return it, but Sherlock glanced at me over his shoulder with a look that said that I should keep it, in no uncertain terms. Ignoring a speculative glance from Watson and feeling somewhat self conscious, as well as knowing that Holmes would not allow me to take off his coat, I was left standing in one of those awkward silences that everyone must know about. I was left switching my weight from one foot to another for a protracted amount of time, until Watson stepped in and said something.  
  
"Well... I don't suppose that there would be a cab service in the vicinity?" That brought to mind an entirely new set of problems. In London, cabs were in no short supply, and so transportation was never an issue. Now, however, we were in a quite different situation. There were no cabs bound to be roaming the country roads, and no convenient pay phone to call one. I glanced around nervously, concerned. It was still around a 1/2 an hour cab ride to Oakstaff; surely we were not going to walk? It was one thing when it was the middle of summer and I was wearing proper clothes, but the long walk now was out of the question.  
  
"Don't worry, Watson," said Holmes in a manner that made one believe that he was talking rather more to me than the aforementioned party. "To serve this very purpose, the Ticket Agent here has taken up the habit of ferrying vagrants like ourselves to their destination. With any luck, the traffic to North Riding has not caused him to cease this service. I can see a light in the office; he must not have closed up for the night yet. We will simply inquire there for a ride." Striding assuredly to the Ticket Office, Holmes rapped sharply at the glass.  
  
Catching up with him, I peered in to the office to see a small, short and seedy man indisposed in a swivel chair with The Times, from three or four days ago, I might mention, laid haphazardly across one knee, as if he had fallen asleep while in the process of reading it. A quick survey of the room brought nothing out of the ordinary to view. A small pot-bellied stove was sitting in the corner, providing a hearty ruddy glow to supplement the twin oil lamps on the table. That table was large and functional, stocked with all manner of pigeonholes and drawers, though one could hardly tell it was a desk from the multitude of papers, tickets, receipts, and other clutter atop it. These pieces of furniture, in addition to the stove, made for a very crowded office, though I am almost positive that I spied a rabbit hutch bursting with shredded newspaper in one corner.  
  
These observations took only a few seconds; the Great Detective must be rubbing off on me, too, though I could deduce nothing from them. However, I was cut short from pursuing any further dissection of the room by Holmes rapping his fingers again opon the glass of the window. This brought a reaction from the man asleep in the chair. He sat up, startled, and after a frantic glance around the room, sighted our trio waiting at the window. Obviously devastated at the thought of leaving customers waiting, he leapt up and fairly jumped to the small counter by the window. This changed viewpoint left me in a better position to describe the man. He was able to look me in the eye without stooping, *And that is saying a lot* but he was well proportioned to his height. He wore a pair of glasses that were too big for him, as well as burdened with lenses that magnified his eyes to quite a factor, making him look like some kind of hybrid insect. His dress indicated that he was indeed the stationmaster. A head of unruly white hair that brought to mind a mop completed the ensemble. Glancing fleetingly at Holmes, I could see an annoyed look on his face; it would seem that he did not take well to sleeping on the job. Clearing his throat, he said loudly through the glass:  
  
"Good evening. We were just wondering if you were still in the habit of providing transportation for those just off the train." In a stuttering, soft voice, the Trainmaster responded.  
  
"Um... transpo... hmmm... yes we still will... uh... provide rides for... let me see... ah... Travelers." The last word he proudly proclaimed as if feeling very accomplished to have finished an entire sentence. The rest of the exchange took longer than anyone might have suspected, with long pauses between each word, as if he was deciding what to say next. I am sure that the halting manner in which he spoke annoyed Holmes to no end. Good; he was rude waking the poor man up, and the least he deserves is a little aggravation.  
  
"How much would it be for a trip to Oakstaff Manor?" Holmes said, a good deal faster than I suspect he would have done under different circumstances. Maybe he was making up for lost time? I do not yet feel equal to speculation of the goings-on in the mind of a Consulting Detective, so I fear that that last conjecture must remain precisely that: a conjecture. Looking affronted at Holmes' brief speech, said in an attitude a good deal more harsh than he had intended, the man shuffled around a bit on the table briefly before revealing a much-used time chart. Drawing a shaking finger down a column, he stopped and tapped a point on said chart.  
  
"Oakstaff? Up to see the Squire, are you? That'll be a half-crown" *AN: I have yet to get these British monetary units straight; forgive me if I screw something up.* With nary a glance at Holmes and I, Watson immediately began digging in his front pocket, the end result being the desired coin, which he placed on the counter. The Trainmaster picked it up and examined it briefly. *Much to the chagrin of myself; as if Watson would dare give counterfeit money!* After securing it's authenticity, he placed it carefully in the large register on the counter, invisible to those standing at the window. This finished, he walked of a door on the rear wall. I briefly mused as to where he had gone, but these were banished by the sound of a horse drawn carriage on the adjoining road somewhere between 5 and 10 minutes later.  
  
Climbing in, I repressed the urge to shiver from the cold again; who knows, maybe Watson would give me *his* coat! The whole Victorian Chivalry mindset was certainly a welcome change from the New York suburbanites, but it tended to come and go at inconvenient times with Holmes. And, more often than not, it came at times more inconvenient than it went. Seating myself next to the window, I glanced out at the darkened countryside. North Riding was beautiful at any time of day, or night. I did not notice Watson sitting down across from me. However, a pause of enough time to call attention to itself between Watson being seated and Holmes made me glance over at the door. I am glad I did. There, I spied the most amusing sight: Sherlock Holmes in the middle of an internal dilemma. We had each taken one side of the carriage. Therefore, he *must* sit next to one of us. The million- dollar-question was, which one of us should he sit nest to?  
  
Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on the viewpoint, the problem was taken out of his hands. Ignoring the fact that Holmes was still sticking 50% of himself out of the doorway, the Stationmaster only noticed that the door was still open. Following the most logical course of action, he then walked around and slammed it shut. This made Holmes loose his balance and sent him careening across the interior of the carriage, headed straight for a world class faceplant on the window across from the door. Oh, what would the world do without me? Thinking quickly, I grabbed the collar of his shirt, acting as an axis for a turn and sending him forcefully in to the seat next to me. Looking around himself, he settled in to the seat complacently and folded his arms across his chest, trying hard enough for it to be humorous to make it seem as if he had intended that all along.  
  
Glancing at Watson across from me, I saw that he was doing a bad job of trying not to laugh; he was almost shaking! The tension in the carriage mounted as we started moving with a lurch, and went on like that for a period of time. By then, Watson was indeed shaking, and Holmes had turned that shade of red that I had seen already today. Finally, I could stand it no longer. I burst out laughing, at the situation more than Holmes, and Watson joined me so quickly we could not have planned it better.  
  
Recovering quickly from this act, I stopped laughing and leaned against the wall with a sigh. However, there was something that my ears did not make sense of. Watson was laughing, to be sure, but a fleeting glance at Holmes out of the corner of my eye showed that he was following our example, and was almost doubled up from it! Will wonders never cease? I watched the two of them until they stopped, then settled back in my seat and stared adoringly at the countryside rolling past my window. If I did not already know the reason, I would be wondering what in the world could have possessed Holmes to leave this home for the cold foggy streets of London. Caught by unpleasant memories, I banished them from my thoughts. This was Holmes' first time back after the events of last summer; doubtless his thoughts were ranging along the same path. Well, there was nothing I could do about it, so I returned to gazing out of the window.  
  
There really is nothing notable about the trip up, so I will spare you. After the outburst at the onset, we lapsed in to companionable silence, each of us occupied by our own speculations. The trip passed quickly, and we pulled up to Oakstaff Manor within half an hour. The sight truly took my breath away. Though Christmas lights and lawn ornaments were *Thankfully* nonexistent, every window in the place was lit with a single glimmering candle, and light streaming from the front windows illuminated the carriage drive. You could hear music coming from inside; they must be having a party. The tune was a graceful waltz, and gave one the uncontrollable urge to either run very quickly or go to sleep. Fortunately, I did neither.  
  
However, here came the difficult part: My left leg had gone totally and completely numb during the lurching ride here. Forget asleep; it was just plain dead! Now, I had to climb down from the carriage with one leg out of operation... Joy. Letting Holmes and Watson get out first, I steadied myself on the convenient handlebar placed aside the door for just that purpose. Stepping down with my right foot, I was feeling very confident, and made the mistake of expecting my other foot to support any weight whatsoever. No sooner had my right foot left the step than I was sent careening facedown in to the mud. Or would have been, if a pair of thin arms had not laced themselves about my waist barely an instant after I lost my balance. Glancing gratefully up at my rescuer, I was assailed by a now- familiar pair of gray eyes. We seemed to be getting in to this position a good deal recently... Unentwining myself, I murmured a few words of thanks and walked briskly across the lawn and knocked at the door.  
  
Holmes and Watson caught up with me just in time for the door to open, revealing... Nothing! The door had apparently opened on it's own! Such thoughts were banished, though, by a gasp and a high-pitched exclamation from somewhere level with my knees:  
  
"Miss Nona?" Startled, I looked down to find... Virgil! The little imp was so short, I had looked right over him! Thumping on to my knees so as to be on eye level with Virgil, I wrapped my arms around his tiny child body.  
  
"Virgil!" I said, "I'm so glad to see you! We all missed you so!" Relinquishing my crushing hold about his shoulders, I held Virgil at an arms length to have a better look at him. I revised my earlier statement about his height. He had grown several inches in the past four months, and I think that he must have doubled the number of freckles. Fortunately, not everything was changed. He still had that devilish grin on, and still looked like a ten-year-old Sherlock reincarnated.  
  
"Miss Nona!" He said again, sure now that it was me. "Father didn't tell us that you and Uncle Sherlock and Mr. Watson would be coming to the party!"  
  
"Indeed, he didn't know!" Came a pleasant voice from behind us with the sound of something said with a smile. Glancing over Virgil's head, I spied Sherrinford Holmes in full Victorian dress attire standing at the door to the Ballroom. Behind him and out of focus, I could see the whirl of color that showed dancing in the vaulted room. I suddenly realized that I had been standing just inside the doorway, allowing neither the front door to be shut, or for Holmes and Watson still standing outside to come in. Noticing this, I stood up, let Holmes and Watson pass, and closed the door behind them. Then, I felt myself free to comment on Sherrinford's earlier comment.  
  
"Didn't know? But you sent us that letter asking us to come!" I pulled the said correspondence from Holmes' front jacket pocket, opened it, and reread it:  
  
My Dearest Brother Sherlock,  
  
By request of the members of the house, especially Virgil, I am obligated to invite you to spend Christmastide at Oakstaff Manor, as well as any companions you may wish to accompany you. Enclosed are three tickets for North Riding for you, Dr. Watson, and Miss Brown; they were charming guests last summer, and we would be overjoyed if they would join us.  
  
Sherrinford  
  
It was entirely straightforward: There were even the tickets! How could he not remember inviting us?  
  
"Nona," sad Sherlock from behind me, "whom did you say delivered the letter?"  
  
"Mycroft. He... Wait... Oh, no." That butterball had pulled a fast one on us! A sardonic voice from the balcony overlooking the foyer only served to confirm my suspicion.  
  
"Dear me, Brother Sherlock! I would have thought that it would take less time than that for you to deduce the true origins of that invitation!"  
  
"Indeed, Mycroft," Holmes replied, his face bearing the marks of one who has suffered long from a most devastating and, sadly, incurable disease: Older Brother. "I had know that it was from you from the start. However, Nona wanted to come, and as long as I had some excuse..." Sherrinford, the poor victim of this fraternal prank was still standing in the doorway of the ballroom and Virgil was standing very quietly behind me. I did that often enough as a small child to know what was going on: He was hoping to hear as much as possible of this argument before being banished to take our coats. My father's familiar mantra came to mind: "If you have dwarves, you might as well work 'em!" I still remembered all the times I had been put on coat duty--  
  
"Virgil," Said Sherrinford, "Take their coats, will you?" Ahh, famous last words. A visible scowl on his face, Virgil dutifully collected our jackets and started to tromp up the stairs to where the coat room likely was. But, before he could get far, Sherlock jogged across the foyer and leaned over the balcony, at eye level with Virgil for once.  
  
"Now," he said in a mock-serious attitude, "What's this I hear of you breaking your magnifying glass?" Virgil's expression changed from adoring to horrified as soon as Sherlock said the word "Magnifying Glass."  
  
"It was an ax-dent, Uncle Sherlock, I promise! But the handle was wet, and it was raining, and... and... it just fell!" Adorable though it was, Virgil was obviously at wits end. I remember when I first met him, the first thing I noticed was that glass. Holding up his hand to silence the small boy's apologetic pleas, Holmes reached over the banister and fumbled around in the pocket of his coat Virgil was carrying for a second. After searching countless pockets, he pulled out, to the surprise of everyone in the room, his magnifying glass and placed it in Virgil's tiny hand. Poor boy, he was speechless! Eyes getting as round, or maybe rounder as saucers, Virgil held the magnifying glass up to the light as one would hold a priceless treasure.  
  
"Merry Christmas, Virgil," he said. Nodding in passing to all present, Sherlock turned on his heel, as he was wont to do, and strode through a door in the direction of the South Wing, where I knew from past experiences that his room was. The youngest Holmes had left everyone in the room, including myself, dumbfounded, especially Virgil. Looking over the glass in his hand, he stood there for a few seconds, until he noticed everyone was staring at him, and promptly stuffed it in his pocket, gathered up the coats, and trotted up the stairs like a good little boy. A glance upward showed that Mycroft had disappeared from his birds eye vigil. This left just Watson, Sherrinford, and myself in the vaulted room. None of us wishing to break the silence that had descended on the foyer, we stood there until a small side door beside which Sherrinford was standing opened, and out popped... Holly! This was just a day for reunions, wasn't it?  
  
"There you are, Sherrinford! I've been looking all over for you! Mrs. Adams has arrived, those guest cooks you hired burnt the ham, so we shall have to do on goose alone, you need to give your toast, and most importantly--" We didn't find out what was "Most importantly," because at that point, Holly caught sight of Watson and I standing at the door. She was utterly speechless for just the briefest fraction of a second, before returning in to Good Hostess mode.  
  
"Nona! Dr. Watson! How good to see you! I was not informed that you would be visiting!" At this last exclamation, she glanced accusingly at Sherrinford, who had not moved from his spot by the ballroom door yet. He held up his hands in a "Don't Shoot!" Gesture and she turned her attention back to us. "Nona, I have just the thing that you can borrow for the Ball! Come upstairs with me, and we can--" Again, we did not find out what we could do, for at that very instant there came, from the direction of upstairs, a piercing, ear-shattering scream.  
  
AN: Well, whadya think? I'll give a cookie to the first person to guess why someone was screaming... Oh, no, even better: I'll give you a BROWNIE!! lol. But you seriously gotta tell me what you think: Is this chapter better or worse than the last one, ignoring the fact that it's over four times longer. It's for the sake of science! While wrighting the first chapter, I loaded a Blind Melon *Easily one of the greatest bands ever* CD in to my disk drive. This chap, I was listing to a mix of famous Mozart pieces, with my personal fav, Divertimento in E flat. Yes, my music tastes are wide and cultured. *Said with sarcasm* But, the wrighting of this has now taken me to exactly 2:11 PM January 1, 2004. Oh, scratch that; 2:12! So much for being finished in time to see the ball drop! Anyway, Happy Brownie-versary, and enjoy your last two days off school! *Shudder* Ciao! 


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